Waiting for my miracle
by adragonbitch
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is gone and John is trying to cope with the pain from loosing his best friend.


_My God,_

_My tourniquet,_

_Return to me salvation_

_**- Tourniquet by Evanescence**  
_

* * *

For three weeks after Sherlock's death, John was as good as dead.

He didn't eat. He barely slept. He never got out of Sherlock's armchair. With legs crossed, he held Sherlock's blue scarf; he fingered the blue fabric, he let it slip between his fingers, he held it close to his face, drowning himself in Sherlock's scent.

Sherlock never really left him. He was always there; in the skull on the mantelpiece; in the packet of cigarettes; in the violin, left on the desk. If John ever opened the refrigerator, he would find himself hoping that he would find a severed head; thumbs; any parts of human bodies, any sign that Sherlock was still living at Baker Street 221B. Whenever Mrs. Hudson tried to clean the flat, John would look up. He would glare at her and tell her not to move anything. Sherlock's possessions' position never changed. It was as though Sherlock was just gone for a while. As though he'd be back eventually.

John never told Mrs. Hudson but he was waiting for that miracle. Deep in his soul, in his heart, he still hoped that Sherlock would come home. He never stopped believing; praying, hoping, his heart burning with desire for his wish to become true.

He spent all his time remembering his best friend. Their fights; the cases that they'd solved; the very rare moments in which they'd laughed together. Sometimes, John would sink so deep in those memories that he would practically see Sherlock standing next to the window.

"John,"Sherlock would say. "I do believe that you are sitting in my chair."

John would stare at the window, heart-broken, he would rub his eyes and he would blink. And – voila- Sherlock was gone again.

Where once was John's heart, there was a hole; a black deep hole that hurt so bad he would wish he were dead.

He would occasionally hear footsteps on the stairs. In those rare cases, he would jump up from his armchair.

"Sherlock," he would shout, his eyes filled with tears. Excitement and happiness, joy and relief burning inside him. "Sherlock, you're back!"

Then Mrs. Hudson would walk into the room and John would break down. She would hug him and they would both weep, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

He was slowly dying. The hole in John's heart swallowed him, day by day; it ate him up; it tore him apart; it drove him insane.

He woke up every night, absolutely sure that he'd heard the sound of a violin playing. He jumped out of bed and he ran out of his bedroom and down the stairs. And every night he saw the violin exactly where Sherlock had left it the last time he'd played.

This was too much for John. He couldn't take it any more; he found it hard to wake up in the morning. The pain was destroying him and he knew that he couldn't go on like this. But Sherlock's presence was still haunting him so he tried to stay out of the flat.

He'd started limping again. Nevertheless, he barely returned to 221B. He spent hours and hours in the graveyard, his back pressed hard against Sherlock's tombstone. He talked; he cursed Sherlock for leaving him; he shouted at him for abandoning him, for betraying him. He cried and shouted, and wept, and hawled until his throat hurt and he couldn't talk any more.

Whenever he was home, he would stare at his mobile. Lestrade rang him; Sarah rang him; Molly rang him. Even Mycroft rang him once. But he never, ever picked up the phone. He couldn't bring himself to talk about it, even though it was the only thing on his mind.

The nightmares woke him up; Sherlock was there, jumping from Bart's rooftop every bloody night and John couldn't save him. He couldn't move his feet. He had the chance to but he never managed to. He woke up crying, blaming himself for Sherlock's death. He was constantly asking himself if he could've done something to save his friend.

And the pain, oh that pain… It never, ever stopped. It was like a starving beast that fed on John's life. It was taking his soul, his heart at snail's pace; it was sucking the life out of him.

Until he told himself that it had to end.

No, Sherlock told him that it had to end.

He was sitting in the armchair when suddenly Sherlock was standing next to the window.

"What are you doing, John," Sherlock asked.

"Suffering," he answered dryly. He was used to talking to this ghost – or whatever it was – and it was his way not to go mad. "What does it look like?"

"Are you intending to spend the rest of your life in _my _armchair?" the ghost asked.

That was when John's phone rang. It was Lestrade.

"You know why he's ringing," Sherlock's ghost stared at Doctor Watson.

John closed his eyes and swallowed. Oh, did he know. This deep, deep hole inside him was aching.

"Won't you go?" Sherlock's ghost asked again. When John didn't answer, the ghost went on. "Come on, John. Don't be an idiot."

John Hamish Watson got out of the armchair and approached the ghost. He stared out of the window and cleared his throat. Was he really able to do it? Was he really the only one who could do it?

Before he could think about it, he grabbed Sherlock's blue scarf and wrapped it around his neck. John put his coat on and ran out of 221B.

"Where are you going, John, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked but he couldn't answer. If he stopped even for a minute, he would give up and he would return to the armchair to suffer in silence.

The crisp London air hit him when he got out of the flat. He hailed for a cab and as he sat in the backseat, the cab window open, he enjoyed the cool wind. For the first time in three weeks he felt alive. He felt like there indeed was life without Sherlock.

John entered Scotland Yard and walked right into Greg Lestrade's office.

"I knew it," Greg grinned when he saw the doctor. He then noticed the scarf and his grin faded. He suffered for Sherlock, John realised. He was not the only one who was hurt.

"Let's get one thing straight, Lestrade," John threatened, his voice trembling with wild anger. "Sherlock Holmes was NOT a fraud."

John's voice cracked before he could go on.

"He… he wasn't a fake."

Sally Donovan and Anderson entered the office just then. At first they were startled to see him, especially without Sherlock's tall figure to complete him. John closed his eyes and exhaled loudly, trying to calm the pain. He was trying not to think that without Sherlock he wasn't complete.

"He wasn't a fake," Lestrade agreed with a shrug.

Donovan and Anderson looked down at their feet. Sally cleared her throat as she put a lock of hair behind her ear. John could feel her guilt filling the air.

"It's our fault, isn't it?" she finally said, holding her tears back. "He's de- he's gone because of us."

John wanted to shove her hard, to shout at her, to pin her against the wall and tell her that yes, she and Anderson had done it. But at the end of the day it was Moriarty. Moriarty had done, he'd killed Sherlock.

_Can't you see what's going on?  
_

Sherlock's voice echoed in John's head and he had to swallow the cry that wanted to come out of his throat. His tears were threatening to choke him. Nevertheless, he didn't give in the pain.

"You know why you're here," Lestrade spoke quietly, his voice trembling.

"I'm not him, Greg."

John balled his fists. He desperately wanted to curl up in that armchair and to cry his heart out. He wanted to leave Scotland Yard; to go back home, at 221B and never leave again. But he remembered his words at Sherlock's grave.

_I owe you so much._

Sherlock loved his work; he loved it more than anything and he needed someone to carry on for him.

"You're not him," Anderson said in a hollow voice. "But if there's anyone in the world who could do this, it's you."

Sally approached John and placed her hand on Doctor Watson's shoulder.

"You've seen him work. You know how he thinks –"

John felt as though she'd stabbed him in the heart. As though she'd pierced him right through his torn heart with a stained steel knife.

"How he _thought,_" John corrected her, feeling empty on the inside. A part of him was gone forever. He would never be the same and he had realised it just at that moment. "How he thought, Sally. He's dead, isn't he?"

_I'm still waiting for that miracle, Sherlock._

He ignored the thought and looked up at Lestrade. His voice trembled as he spoke and his hands were shaking. But he had to do it.

He owed it to his best friend. He owed him so much.

"One more thing, Lestrade," he whispered as he let a single tear roll down his cheek.

"Yes?"

"I'm not a consulting detective," John swallowed and closed his eyes. That bloody hole inside him hurt like an old wound from the battlefield. "He was the only one. He will be the only consulting detective in the world. The only one that ever existed."

* * *

Snow was covering the streets. Tiny sticky snowflakes fell idly from the grey, cloudy sky and lay on rooftops and pavements. Frost painted the windows and ice-cold wind was blowing. Joyfull music filled the air and children ran down the streets, ecited because of the holiday. It was so Christmassy.

John posted the solution of his last case in his blog and closed his laptop, heaving a sigh. He then propped up on his elbows and looked out of the window, suppressing a cry. Mrs. Hudson entered the room and grinned widely, exaggeratedly.

"Fancy a cuppa, dear?" she asked. John shook his head.

"I'm going out, Mrs. Hudson," he managed. He wrapped Sherlock's scarf around his neck and went out.

He needed to think. And other people irritated him.

Oh, was he becoming more and more like Sherlock.

He wanted to stay away from 221B right now. Everything reminded him of Sherlock and of the last Christmas they'd spend there. It hurt. It hurt like bloody hell. It had never hurt so much, it had never been so terribly, bloodily painful. And that damn hole inside him…

He worked, he let the cases fill his days; he buried himself with work just so he couldn't think of Sherlock. It didn't help. Not at all. He was there, always there. Always helping him, judging him, sometimes even praising him. He was with John at every singly crime scene. He stood there right next to John.  
"Think," he said, every time. "Come on, John, think. Just THINK. You can do it."

He missed Sherlock. He missed him; he missed him so much that he couldn't breathe.

And on that day, he missed him even more. It was Christmas, it was a family holiday. He did have Harry, but Sherlock was his family. Sherlock was the best friend he'd had. The only friend he would ever have. The only person in the world that mattered.

People had often assumed they were lovers. They weren't. They never could have been. They had something between them; dedication, devotion, willingness to die for each other; even love. Yes, John loved Sherlock. Not in the way that everyone thought he did. Not the type of feelings he'd had for any woman in his life. He loved Sherlock in a way that could not be described. There probably wasn't a word in any language that could describe what he felt for Sherlock; what kind of relationship they'd had.

He walked down the streets of London, hands tucked in his pockets, and stared at the sky. He was freezing; icy snowflakes were melting as soon as they touched his skin.

None of it mattered. Nothing mattered any more because there was no Sherlock.

There was no life before Sherlock. He couldn't remember life before meeting the consulting detective. There was no life after Sherlock; it was wall just ghost-like existence. His entire life was the time he'd spent with Sherlock before the fall. And that was it. NADA. Anything else was real. Being alive, breathing, walking - it all seemed surreal because HE was missing.

John didn't use to believe in soul mates. He used to think it was nonsense, bloody stupid and annoying.

But it was the only thing that could describe that relationship he'd had with Sherlock. Half of his soul was missing and that was the reason why he found it so hard to go on living without Sherlock by his side. And even this was not strong enough to descrie how he felt.

Only so much could he take.

As he went on walking, hot tears ran down his face and soon enough Sherlock's scarf was soaked with tears. He had hoped; he had hoped so hard that Sherlock would be back. That he was alive, that he was still breathing and moving, his sharp and quick mind still thinking.

He now realised that he just had to give up. There was no point in this.

That bleeding hole inside him was nowhere near disappearing; it was growing deeper and deeper, and it was feeding on John's hope. He had to stop all this; he had to stop suffering, he had to stop believing. There was no point.

John came to a halt. There was no-one on the street. He looked up at the sky.

"HE IS DEAD. HE IS GONE. SO JUST GIVE IT UP ALREADY. STOP THIS BLOODY PAIN. STOP TORTURING ME! TAKE MY PAIN AWAY, TAKE MY FAITH AWAY, DON'T LET ME BELIEVE THAT HE IS STILL ALIVE! Please…"

He pressed his back against a wall nearby and slowly slid down to the ground. He wrapped his arms around his knees and wept. He couldn't stop it; he couldn't make it disappear. It was going to swallow him all the same.

Eventually, John stood up and continued walking. Well, this was his fate. He was destined to suffer forever.

And Sherlock was never coming back.

Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock wad de-

Sherlock was there, in the crowd. He could see him between the hundreds of other people, his tall figure unique among the ordinary human beings.

John stopped limping and ran after that figure. Excitement filled him. It was true! That miracle had happened! It was him! Alive!

"Sherlock!" he shouted. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!"

Doctor Watson suddenly froze in his steps. People were bumping into him, they were pushing him and jerking him but he couldn't move. He just stood there, staring blankly at the crowd. How could he be that naïve? That stupid?

The man he'd seen (or he'd thought he'd seen) wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock was gone. Sherlock wasn't there. He lay in his grave, slowly decaying. Cold. Dead.

_I am not calling you a ghost. I am not, Sherlock, but please. Please, stop haunting me. Stop it, Sherlock._

He returned to Baker Street 221B. That walk had not been a good idea. He should have stayed home; he should've drunk that cuppa. Slowly, idly, feeling numb and destroyed, he walked up the stairs. Without taking his coat and scarf off, he sat by the fire, on Sherlock's armchair. Two stockings were hanging on the mantelpiece.

"Mrs. Hudson?' John shouted. She quickly came into the room.

"Is everything okay, John?" she asked, her voice trembling with anxiety.

"Where's his stocking? HANG. IT. ON. THE. MANTELPIECE."

Then he broke down, once again. He hid his face in his palms and started crying again. It was futile; he would never be over Sherlock. It would never ever stop hurting.

* * *

A few hours later, Sherlock's stocking was hanging on the mantelpiece as well. John, locked inside his head, fighting with his dark feelings, was again sitting in Sherlock's armchair. The blue scarf was still wrapped around his neck. It had lost Sherlock's scent long ago but John kept wearing it. It was like having a piece of Sherlock right next to him.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in the other armchair, staring at the cracking logs in the fireplace. Her eyes observed the orange flames, dancing their non-stop dance but she regularly glanced at John, forgetting about the fire. She checked on him every five seconds, too worried about him to think of anything else.

He hadn't been the same after Sherlock's death. He was just an empty shell; soulless; heartbroken. It was driving him insane, knowing that his best friend was gone. Mrs. Hudson gave him a sympathetic look; she knew John would never be over Sherlock's death.

She sighed again and got out of the armchair.

"I'll make some tea, dear," she exclaimed hollowly and went into the kitchen.

John lifted his eyes up and looked at the stocking. He remembered Sherlock's reaction when he'd first seen the stockings hanging there.

"What is that?" he'd asked, eyebrows raised suspiciously. He'd stared at them, he'd examined them closely, he'd even sniffed them.

"Stockings," John had answered.

"And why are they hanging from the mantelpiece?" Sherlock had asked again.

"People do this on Christmas."

"Yeah but why? Why would people hang their stockings on the mantelpiece?"

"Well… because Santa Claus puts the presents in the stockings," John had explained nervously. Sherlock was driving him up the wall with his questions.

"Do you believe in Santa Claus, John?" Sherlock had giggled.

"No, of course not!"

"Then why are those stockings hanging on the mantelpiece?"

John had rolled his eyes angrily.

"It is called Christmas spirit, for God's sake!"

He was now glaring at those stockings; the ones whose purpose Sherlock never really understood. And he would never understand it. Because he was bloody dead!

For the first time after Sherlock's funeral, John felt angry. He felt mad, actually. Why had Sherlock done this?  
_And why did you jump from that building? John asked._

_People do this when they kill themselves, Sherlock answered in John's head._

_Yeah, but why? Why would people kill themselves? John asked again, despair in his voice._

He sighed again. He decided that he would go to bed. He couldn't stand being awake. But before he left, he stared back at the mantelpiece. He did not believe in Santa Claus but if he did, he would've asked for one thing. One more thing. One more miracle.

_Don't be dead, Sherlock._

Then he got a text. He sighed angrily. Why was Lestarde bothering him on Christmas? Why was _anyone_ bothering him on Christmas?

**_Open the door, John._**

**_SH_**

John nearly dropped his phone. Anger and resentment filled him, followed by hope and then by that disgusting pain that was able to kill him.

**_I don't know who you are or why are you doing this. This is not funny. Stop this game. It is not funny and you – the way you're playing with people's emotions - repel me._**

**_JW_**

The answer came immediately.

_**Open the bloody door, John, I'm freezing and I haven't got my key.**_

_**SH**_

John didn't even bother to answer this time. He just hated whoever was sending the messages, he was twisted. This was dreadful, disgusting. How could anyone do this to the people who loved Sherlock?!

He got another text and opened it, irritated.

**_The door, John. Now._**

**_SH_**

John groaned and went downstairs to open the bloody door. He was very, very angry. Whoever it was that was making this stupid joke, he would punch him right in the face.

He opened the door, ready to shout his lungs out at the idiot who was playing Sherlock.

Except that it was Sherlock himself that was standing on the doorstep.

There was no doubt it was him.

The curly black hair.

Those eyes, those blue-green eyes… Violet eyes, John remembered.

The black coat.

"Is this you?" John whispered and his voice cracked. "Is this really you?"

"Yes, I'm real, I'm breathing, I'm not dead, I'm not a ghost," Sherlock said and he rolled his eyes. "Can I now come-"

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock nearly knocking him on the ground. He hugged him tightly, pressing his face against his chest, inhaling his scent; he felt the warmth of his body; he felt Sherlock hugging him back and he knew it.

It was finally over. His miracle had happened. Sherlock had done it; he was not dead.

They broke apart. John let him come in and they went upstairs, Doctor Watson still shaking, unable to understand what was really happening.

With eyes wide open, he sat in his armchair – the one that once belonged to Sherlock – and buried his face in his palms. He couldn't stop shaking. He rubbed his eyes, he blinked, he even slapped himself but Sherlock was still there. Alive. Very much alive and very much breathing.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I do believe that you are sitting in my armchair," he finally said.

John turned around and faced him, confusion written all over his face. He pressed his hands against his eyes and sighed, then jumped out of the armchair and ran to Sherlock.

He looked up at him. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Then John punched Sherlock. In the face. Hard.

"Well," Sherlock said, rubbing his cheek. "I should have known. I actually expected it but I was starting to think that you wouldn't do it."

He sat in the armchair and he crossed his legs while John was still up, glaring at Sherlock.

Anger. Relief. Happiness. Shock. Anger. Love. Confusion. Anger.

He was a mess of emotions and he didn't really know exactly what he was feeling.

"Is that… Is that my scarf that you're wearing?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

John shook his head. He still couldn't believe he wasn't dreaming.

"I'd better call Mycroft. And Lestrade. I should go downstairs and tell Mrs. Hudson as well. May be I should ring Molly as well."

"No, you shouldn't."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, Mycroft and Lestrade can wait. You should indeed tell Mrs. Hudson but there's no need ringing Molly."

Sherlock had got out of his armchair and was now standing right behind John, whose confusion grew bigger and bigger. He turned around and gave Sherlock a demanding look.

"And why shouldn't I call Molly?" he asked.

"Oh, because she knew I was alive all along," Sherlock shrugged as he walked around the room. "Amazing! It's like I never left!"

John suddenly found himself in front of Sherlock, clutching the front of his coat.

"YOU BLOODY SELFISH BASTARD!" he shouted, shoving him. "ALL THOSE MONTHS! AND YOU NEVER TOLD _ME!_ YOU TOLD MOLLY HOOPER BUT YOU NEVER TOLD _ME_! YOU LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD! YOU LET ME SUFFER!"

He hit Sherlock again, this time lighter. John hid his face in his palms, inhaling, exhaling. He opened his mouth; then he closed it. He walked in circles, trying to figure out what to do.

Eventually he sat back in Sherlock's armchair and burst out crying. He felt Sherlock's hand on his back and looked up.

"Why now?" he whispered.

"Oh, well, you kept repeating how you wanted your miracle. Miracles happen on Christmas, don't they?" Sherlock smiled and he sat on the arm-rest of the armchair, crossing his legs.

John hugged him again, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He doubted that if the circumstances were different, Sherlock wouldn't have taken more sentiment than that, but given how guilty he was, he returned the hug.

"You are a bloody dick, do you know that?!" John asked as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded towards John.

"People might talk," he joked.

"You know what, I don't care what they might say," John shrugged. "You're back and that's what's important."

Sherlock suddenly stood up.

"May I have my scarf now?"

John rolled his eyes as he unwrapped the scarf from his neck and handed it to Sherlock.

"I'll go and see Mrs. Hudson now," the consulting detective informed as he headed downstairs. He suddenly froze on his steps and turned around again.

"You know, I read your blog. I am… impressed."

"No, you're not," John laughed.

"Yes, you're right, I'm not," Sherlock smirked. "You could've done much, much better."

As he walked down the stairs, John heard him say "I am the one who owes you now, John."

"Sorry? I didn't' hear what you just said."

"Oh, yes, you did," Sherlock shouted from the stairs. "I'm not repeating it!"

With a sigh, John sat back in the armchair and laughed out loud from relief.

He was back.

And it was over.

No matter how long it would take, that hole inside him would slowly heal. Because Sherlock Holmes was alive and things were back to normal.

Well, if you consider life with Sherlock Holmes normal, of course


End file.
